


Et Insidiarum Crassescit

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Christmas, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5512187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas approaches, and Sherlock has a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Et Insidiarum Crassescit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyprydian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyprydian/gifts).



> The 25th and final installment of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt (which is not the title, incidentally) is from ladyprydian, who specified the Medieval Omegaverse, with Sherlock and John kissing under the holly. Which sparked me going on a bit of a research jaunt to discover that kissing under anything at Christmas is actually a fairly recent tradition (only in the last 200 years or so), though of course holly and ivy have both been used to decorate for much longer. But I did discover the Medieval tradition of eating small mince pies every day during Yuletide, as a way of garnering luck for the upcoming year, and the rest just snowballed from there. Pretty sure she'll forgive me.
> 
> And that concludes this year's Advent Calendar Drabbles. Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays!

The decorating started the first day of Advent in the Great Hall, with garlands of ivy and holly strung up from the windows along the walls.  John was part of the crew to fix them, and every night, Sherlock carefully plucked out the barbs and stickers that John hadn’t been able to pull out himself, before he applied the balm to the reddened palms.

 

There were wreathes for the doors, and ribbons for the banisters, and every single mattress had to be turned out and turned back in again, and the kitchens were working at full tilt, churning out fruitcakes and mince pies for the Christmas feast, and Sherlock was in the center of it, and unable to slip away to the library a single day.

 

“It’s a waste of time,” complained Sherlock as he wrapped John’s hands in a length of extra muslin.  “Sitting here, doing _nothing_.  I can’t even talk to Mycroft, I can barely have a _pee_ without Cook shouting her head off, wondering where I’ve gone.  _Will,_ you fetch the bread and _Will,_ you stoke the fire and _Will,_ you’re the one to go out in the garden and pick a basket of parsley in the pouring rain at daybreak.  I can’t even pretend she’s _asking_ , or she cuffs me ‘round the head.  Why do I have to use the name _Will_?”

 

“Ow,” hissed John, when the muslin rubbed against his raw skin, and Sherlock loosened the strip of cloth.  “We could hardly call you _Sherlock_ , it’s not that common a name.  We’d be found out before the end of the week.  Lucky you have a spare at all.”

 

“You’re still _John_ ,” sulked Sherlock. 

 

“And I’m one of six in the house,” John pointed out.  “And if they’d asked my surname, we’d have been done in.”

 

“We should just go,” repeated Sherlock, and John sighed.

 

“It’s winter, Sherlock.  The snow’s up to our chests.  No one’s moving, not even Moriarty.”

 

“Which is why we _should_ ,” said Sherlock. “We’d be another step ahead….”

 

John sighed.  “Sherlock—“

 

“It’s _pointless_ sitting here.  Mycroft isn’t going to help, and the library’s of no use if I can’t access it.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“We should go France,” said Sherlock suddenly.  “He said something about France.”

 

“ _Where_ in France?” asked John patiently, and Sherlock scowled at him.  John wanted to rest his hands on the back of Sherlock’s neck, rub his thumb over the bond bite… but his arms were too tired to even lift them up to Sherlock’s shoulders – and besides, his thumbs were too pricked and swollen to feel Sherlock’s skin.  “We’ll go.  No, listen to me, Sherlock, we’ll _go_.  But we can’t go until spring, when the ice and snow have melted and the mud’s dried up, and we’ll have enough money to pay for our fare.”

 

“We’ll have a couple of pennies between us, you mean,” said Sherlock bitterly.  “That’s not enough to pay for two fares to France.”

 

John didn’t say anything, and Sherlock sucked in a breath.  He stared at John with wide eyes.  “Unless… you mean to….”

 

“I’m not going to leave you,” said John harshly, immediately, and ignored the ache in his muscles in order to lift his hand and rest the tips of his fingers next to Sherlock’s cheek.  “I’m not going to leave you ever again.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed until he wasn’t so close to hyperventilating. 

 

“We’ll work our way across.”

 

Sherlock snorted.  “They won’t hire an omega.”

 

“Then you’ll be a beta,” said John, stubbornly. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes sprang open – they shone with excitement for a moment, and then dulled just as quickly.

 

“What if—?” began Sherlock, but couldn’t continue over the sudden thickness in his throat.

 

Two heats, since the first.  Never a quickening.  John was never sure how to feel about it, but he resolved to take his cues from Sherlock, and Sherlock….

 

This was the first he’d even referenced anything about it.

 

“We won’t worry about that now,” said John firmly, and Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded.  “Just… think about spring.  Warm air, and bleating lambs, and flowers blooming in the meadows.  Everything smelling green and sweet—”

 

“And no holly or ivy in the house.”

 

“No _us_ in the house,” said John, and leaned forward until his forehead touched Sherlock’s.  “We’ll go, if there’s no reason for us to stay.”

 

“If,” echoed Sherlock, not sure how he felt about that _if_ one way or the other, and nuzzled into John’s neck. 

 

They fell back on the blankets folded on the floor to make up their sleeping area; the makeshift bed wasn’t the most comfortable either had ever used, but at least, since they were a bonded couple, it was _theirs_ , and private from the rest of the servants in the house.  Sherlock held tight to John’s torso, quiet and submissive and trusting. John rested his arms around him, cherishing the moment, because he knew it would be brief.

 

“Christmas Day,” said Sherlock suddenly.  “They’ll all be busy.  That might be the best chance I have to look in the library.”

 

John frowned.  “It’ll be locked.”

 

“I can get the key.”

 

John shifted to look at Sherlock’s face.  “ _How_?”

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “They’ll all be drunk – it won’t be hard to slip it off the wall without anyone noticing.  And I’ll replace it with the key to the storeroom, no one will question _that_ key being gone for a bit.”

 

John shook his head.  “If you get caught—“

 

“I won’t get caught.”

 

“But if you do—“

 

“I won’t!”

 

“Sherlock—“

 

Sherlock sat up and stared at him.  “This is our only chance, John.  We’ve been here for four months, Mycroft is never going to let me into that library, and he’s never going to tell us what we need to know, not if it means us leaving. He wants us to stay here where it’s safe.”

 

“And is that such a bad thing?”

 

“If it means Moriarty _winning_ , then yes!” snapped Sherlock.  “Or do you not want to avenge Elraed’s death?”

 

John shoved against Sherlock, and then let out a hiss as his inflamed hands burned with pain.  Sherlock sat on his haunches, watching him warily, as if uncertain whether or not to comfort John, or run.

 

John breathed through his nose until the pain had subsided, and then carefully sat back on the blankets again. 

 

“Avenging Elraed means nothing if you’re hung for theft,” he said.

 

“I won’t be,” said Sherlock quietly, still stubborn.  “Not if you look out for me.”

 

John breathed deeply.  “It’s a terrible plan.”

 

“But it’s a plan,” said Sherlock softly, and nothing more was said as they wrapped each other in their arms and went to sleep.

 

*

 

Christmas Day came too quickly.  The ivy and holly done, John’s hands had barely healed before he was chopping wood and lugging it back to the house, fixing up rooms and furniture and all the other odd jobs that had to be left for winter to complete. 

 

The house was in an uproar; every moment hurtling forward to Christmas Day.  John barely saw Sherlock, he was so busy in the kitchens, but every time he did, he could see the determination in Sherlock’s eyes that much more intensified. 

 

There was no reasoning with him; Sherlock would sneak into the library on Christmas Day, and there was little John could do but let him, regardless of the consequences.

 

Even during Christmas Eve services, while the entire house kept watch at the church, crowded together and on their feet, John could feel Sherlock faintly vibrating with excitement.

 

“We’ll know soon,” he’d whispered to John as they filed into the church, and Mycroft glanced at them from his place near the front, curious and eyes faintly narrowed, and John prayed that Mycroft hadn’t overheard, and given enough to jump to the correct conclusion.

 

The service had never felt so long to John, particularly with Sherlock already impatient, and Mycroft watching them for some kind of sign.

 

The tension was going to kill him, John was sure of it.

 

“We could just go tonight,” John murmured to Sherlock as they prepared for bed.

 

For a moment, John thought Sherlock might agree.

 

And then:

 

“No,” decided Sherlock.  “If they’re asleep, they could wake up.  If they’re drunk and merry, they won’t even know to look.”

 

Sherlock slept soundly.  John wasn’t sure he could sleep at all.

 

*

 

Sherlock’s plan wasn’t to take place until that evening’s festivities.  John wasn’t sure how Sherlock instinctively knew that would be the best time, but once he saw, he understood Sherlock’s insistence on waiting.

 

The entire house was in merriment, and the Great Hall full to bursting with guests and relations and half the county, people John had never seen before but who were greeted as old friends by the Duke and his kin.  Even Mycroft seemed to be known by them, smiling thinly as they greeted him with a nod or a single word, though he made no move to introduce John or Sherlock to them.

 

It was as unexpected to John as it was annoying to Sherlock.

 

“They’d know something about Moriarty,” Sherlock said to John, in between passing out the trays of food from the kitchens.  “If I could just _ask_ ….”

 

“And be thrown out on our ears for your trouble,” said John. 

 

“Will!” Cook shouted at Sherlock.  “Those pigeons won’t fly their way to his lordship’s plate!”

 

Sherlock huffed.  “How could they, you overcooked them by half!”

 

Sherlock moved just in the nick of time, and John had to jump to get out of the way of the Cook’s towel, snapped just where Sherlock had stood a moment before.

 

John stayed in the shadows, watching as Sherlock weaved his way through the tables, carrying tray after tray laden with bowls and plates and cups, all meant for the tables where the finer people sat.  The servants would eat afterwards, and John knew that Cook intended to feed them all very well – mutton and new potatoes, fragrant with rosemary and pepper and onion, cooked until perfectly tender, rich with gravy and served with bread baked that morning.  It might not have been pigeons and bread so fine it melted in one’s mouth, but it’d be better than anything John was likely to have for a meal for some time yet.

 

(He wasn’t going to think about what the Watsons were eating at home that day.  He wasn’t going to think about how the bread Wil Watson made was so much better than the stuff Cook turned out, or how the mutton didn’t really need the salt that Cook insisted on using from her precious store, not when the onions and mushrooms lent enough earthy flavor to round out the sauce.)

 

In the Great Hall, the fires blazed and the children ran circles around the tables.  There were mummers on one end, and carolers on the other, and every candle was burning bright and tall.  The Yule Log crackled in the fireplace, and every face bore a smile. 

 

John felt small, and lonely, and cold.

 

“John,” said Sherlock, and John turned to see his mate standing next to him, fingers curled around something small in his hands. “It’s time.  You’ll be look-out?”

 

Their plan, to slip into the Duke’s library.  The only chance Sherlock would likely have to look through the papers there without having to explain himself – but only if he weren’t caught.

 

John nodded, and turned back to the party.  “Of course I will, you don’t even have to ask.”

 

Sherlock bit his lip, nervous.  “Here.”

 

He thrust his hands out to John, and opened his fingers to reveal two bite-sized mince pies.

 

“For luck,” said Sherlock, and now John heard the nervousness there, and wished he hadn’t been so gruff.

 

“For luck,” he said, softer now, and his fingers brushed against Sherlock’s palms as he took one and popped one into his mouth, while Sherlock ate the other.

 

Venison rich with cinnamon and cloves and onion, in just the right amounts.  The butter in the pastry melted on John’s tongue.  The pepper warmed John straight to his toes and his fingers, the meat was so finely chopped that he barely needed to chew.  He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, savoring the treat, and the moment Sherlock had swallowed, John reached for the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

 

Sherlock’s mouth opened easily, without protest, and tasted of the mince pie and the mulled wine John knew were available to all the servants behind the scenes.  John licked into it, breathing in the flavors, feeling them settle in his nose as his lover settled into his arms. 

 

Sherlock kept his hands on John’s chest when John finally pulled away.  He was breathing hard; his cheeks were flushed as if he were just going into estrus – with wine or passion, John didn’t know which, and didn’t want to ask.

 

Sherlock swayed, eyes half-mast.  He might have been falling asleep.

 

“Sherlock,” whispered John.  “The library.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes sprang open.  “Yes.  I will.  Just….”

 

John leaned forward again, and rested his cheek against Sherlock’s, just so that his nose brushed the bond bite on his neck.  “It’ll be all right.  You’ll find it.”

 

Sherlock breathed in deeply, and John pulled back in time to see Sherlock straighten his back, and put his chin in the air – the very image of the haughty young omega he’d met to sign the bonding contract less than a year before.

 

“Of course I will,” said Sherlock, and he sounded the part too.  John grinned at him.

 

“Then _go_ ,” he said, drawing out the last word as if he were bored with waiting.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, understanding him perfectly, and went.

 

*

 

Sherlock had been in the library once since arriving at the house four months previously, and he’d known instantly that it was exactly the sort of place in which he’d rather have earned his keep.  The kitchens were hot and humid, and Sherlock wasn’t regarded particularly highly, because he was terrible at everything he tried.  Even the ten-year-old scullery maid was given more responsibility than Sherlock.

 

“What do you expect?” said Mycroft with a wry smile when Sherlock complained.  “She’s been here since she was six.  You’ve been here two weeks.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he thought Mycroft would be sympathetic, surrounded by his books and his scrolls and his quills.  He sat at a wide table in the middle of the library, a dark room that was easily as large as the Great Hall beneath it, with high windows that let in shafts of light from outside. 

 

No one looking at them would think they were brothers – unless they were looking closely.  Mycroft was muscular where Sherlock was slender, Mycroft’s hair was slightly auburn and flat against his head, where Sherlock’s dark locks were wavy and thick.  Mycroft wore clothes that might not have been as fine as those the Duke wore, but at least were a sight better than the homespun muslin that Sherlock wore as one of the servants.

 

It was the lift of their chin that marked them as brothers, the way they set their shoulders back, the imperial note in their tones.  They had a way of looking down at other by the length of their noses, and when no one was looking, they both had a tendency to look into the middle distance, lost in thought.

 

“I shouldn’t be in the kitchens at all.  I’m not a _peasant_ ,” sputtered Sherlock.  “Our father is highly regarded, and I’m well-learned.”

 

“And where precisely do you think you should be?” asked Mycroft, thinly patient.

 

“With you, here, in the library.  Obviously.”

 

“I don’t need assistance,” said Mycroft dismissively, and turned back to his work, clearly done with the conversation.

 

“I don’t want to _assist_ you,” said Sherlock scathingly.  “I want to look in the books and scrolls here and determine what the Duke knows about Moriarty and who he really is.”

 

“Leave it, brother,” said Mycroft shortly.  “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Of _course_ it matters!  He’s an imposter.”

 

“He’s none of your concern.”

 

Sherlock resisted the urge to kick the table.  “You’re my brother.  You’re meant to help me.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes had flashed when he looked up again.  “Oh?  Because the last I heard, my _younger brother_ is still wanted for the murder of a knight.”

 

“We didn’t kill him!”

 

“And you should realize that _it doesn’t matter_.  If I introduce you as my younger brother, and John as your mate, then not only am I offering you up to the courts for trial, then I’m admitting to knowingly harboring a criminal under the roof of my lord the Duke – and I’d be going to the courts with you as an accomplice.  So if you want to live, you’ll keep your head down and your arse in the kitchens, and forget that you ever had an elder brother in this house.”

 

Sherlock scoffed.  “Looking out for yourself very well, aren’t you?”

 

“If that’s the way you want to see it,” said Mycroft shortly.  “Don’t let me see you in the library again.”

 

But it was Christmas Day now, and the entire house was downstairs in the Great Hall, drunk on wine and rich foods and the surety that they were blessed above all others.  Mycroft might not have drunk the mulled wine as much as the rest of them, but Sherlock had seen him eat more than his fair share of the puddings, and doubted that he’d make his way anywhere but his bed that night.

 

Certainly not the library, where he wouldn’t see Sherlock perusing the scrolls, looking through the Duke’s well-kept diaries and current histories, painstakingly written out day after day.

 

“This is where we’ll find it,” Sherlock had told John, when they’d arrived.  The Duke was famed for keeping meticulous records of every single thing that happened in the realm; if Moriarty really had saved the King’s life, then there was little chance that the Duke would not have included it in his diaries.

 

The lock clanked as Sherlock turned it, but otherwise the door opened easily, without resistance, and Sherlock slipped into the library, careful to keep the light from his candle hidden until he’d shut the door behind him.  He stood with his back to the door for a moment, and let the light shine in the room, and looked at it with wonder.

 

He might have been all bravado and confidence for John… but he hadn’t actually been certain that he _could_ do it.  Standing in the library, alone and surely alone for some time, was the first realization that he might actually be successful.

 

The moon shone brightly, at least.  It was still very dark in the library – Sherlock had no intention of snuffing out his candle, for a myriad of reasons – but the moonlight streaming in through the high windows at least softened the edges, and made the oppressive task before him seem almost romantic. Just him, in the quiet room, the sounds of the party below distant and easily ignored.  Surrounded by paper and the scent of ink, dust floating unseen and rats scurrying about in the shadows. 

 

And somewhere, a secret waiting to be revealed, and every moment could be the one in which he found it.

 

Sherlock filled his lungs to bursting, and grinned as he let out the slow breath. 

 

And then he began.

 

*

 

“You’re not dancing,” said the girl, and John gave a start, blinking his eyes as he shook himself awake.  “Don’t you like to dance?”

 

“I’m a servant,” said John, and turned to look at the girl, not much older than he was, and wearing a finely woven green dress with golden accents.  She had blonde hair neatly twisted up on her head, and there were even a few sprigs of holly for decoration tucked in between her braids.  She was rather pretty, thought John – in a pale sort of way. “I don’t dance.”

 

The girl laughed.  “That’s not stopping them,” she said, with a laugh, looking back at the Great Hall, where the tables had been pushed back to the sides, and the entire house, servants included, were criss-crossing across the floor in an elaborate knot. 

 

John wondered how long he’d been asleep.

 

“You’re not dancing either,” he said, a bit cross for realizing he’d fallen asleep on his watch, and he thought of Sherlock, alone in the library, trusting him to keep everyone away.

 

 _Hopefully_ alone.  If John could get away, he’d go to check.

 

“Well,” said the girl, a bit shy, “I was hoping you’d dance with me.”

 

“Sorry,” said John flatly.

 

The girl rolled her eyes.  “Oh, come on, then!”  She grabbed John’s hand and pulled him straight out of his perch and to the dance floor, much stronger than she appeared at first glance.  Her hand was small and warm in his, and it wasn’t until they were surrounded by the other dancers that John even realized he hadn’t put up much of a protest – or really, the best protest of all, that he was already bonded.

 

Once on the floor, John realized there was little chance of an escape.  For one thing, everyone in the house could see him now; even bonded, one dance with someone else was hardly going to cause outrage, but leaving her unescorted on the floor would, particularly since she was clearly one of the guests and dancing with her ought to have been considered an honor. 

 

Better to stay, thought John, and finish the dance and then gracefully bow out, and once no one was thinking of him any longer, see to Sherlock. 

 

The dance was a simple one, and after carefully watching the other men dancing – and taking a few shoves as a reminder – John picked up the steps.  Most of the time, he faced the girl, who was leaping and dancing about with the rest of them, her arms graceful in the air, a cheerful and clearly joyful smile on her face. 

 

It might have been all right, if the dancing had only consisted of leaping about and passing each other in concentric circles.  Except then she held one arm aloft, and the other out to John, and he realized that everyone else had paired off, facing each other, and walking with arms around each other’s waists.

 

John swallowed, and was suddenly glad that Sherlock wasn’t there to see. 

 

“You lied to me,” teased the girl, because it was easier to talk now.  “You’re a lovely dancer.”

 

“I didn’t say I _couldn’t_ ,” said John.

 

“I’m Agatha,” said the girl. 

 

“John.”

 

“John,” repeated Agatha, rolling it in her mouth.  “You weren’t here last year.”

 

“No, we’ve only been here since August.”

 

Agatha eyes opened.  “We?”

 

But the music changed, and the couples broke apart again.  John let Agatha go, and watched her pick up the dance as easily as if she had never paused.  The only difference was that her eyes were focused on him quite solidly, as if the dancing itself no longer held any power to distract her from scrutinizing John, and trying to assess him.

 

“I’m bonded,” John blurted out, when the music let them twirl around together again.

 

“Yes, so I realized,” said Agatha, a bit regretfully.  “I thought, perhaps a sibling, but then you wouldn’t have resisted when I asked you to dance.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said John.  “I didn’t meant to—“

 

Agatha shook her head.  “She won’t mind that I’ve stolen you for a dance?”

 

“He would,” said John, a bit wryly, “but he won’t know.”

 

Agatha was even prettier when she had a confused expression on her face – but it cleared within a moment.  “Oh.  _Oh_.  I see.  Is he near his time?”

 

It took John a moment before he realized what she meant.  “No, he’s not… he just doesn’t enjoy crowds like this.”

 

Agatha nodded sagely, as if the idea of a servant who didn’t enjoy crowds wasn’t entirely illogical.  “Then I shan’t ask for another dance, since he would mind – but would you at least talk to me, by the by?”

 

She was so earnest and hopeful, in her simple request, John couldn’t help but wonder.  “I’m sorry, m’lady, but… why do you want to waste your time talking to me?  There’s a dozen young and unattached alphas out there who would be proud to dance with someone as pretty as you.”

 

Agatha raised a single eyebrow, as if entirely unimpressed with the compliment – but John could see the blush rising to her cheeks anyway. 

 

“Because then I won’t have to dance with them,” she replied, so prettily and coquettishly that John had to laugh.

 

*

 

At first, Sherlock was certain they would never find what they needed.  The Duke kept meticulous diaries, it was true – after all, his obsession with his diaries was one of the main reasons he’d taken on Mycroft in the first place, as Mycroft had always shown a fair hand and a keen memory for details. 

 

The problem with such a meticulous nature, however, was that his notes were expansive – and that was before they were transcribed into the expensive books that lined the shelves.  Recent weeks, months, years – they were written entirely on scraps of paper, kept in folders that were carefully recorded for the day or event to which they occurred.  The most recent books were at least ten years back, and even so, Sherlock found the scribbled notes in boxes that lined another shelf, further back.

 

It was clear that there was an intricate system at work, and Sherlock knew that if so much as a single paper was found out of place, Mycroft would know whom to blame.

 

Therefore, he took his time.  Whatever even precipitated Moriarty’s appointment as Earl of Mansfield, it occurred at some point around the time of John’s birth – or at least, not very long before it.  It was a starting place, if nothing else, and Sherlock went straight to the diaries that depicted that year, and began to read.

 

The handwriting was clearly not Mycroft’s, which Sherlock would have recognized immediately, but it was fancy enough, and well-done.  And even though Sherlock didn’t read every word – after all, it wasn’t as if he needed the information about crop production – it was slow going, because it seemed that the Duke had often hosted the King for various hunts or summer parties.

 

Day after day of itemized meals, the people who came to the house, the guests, the births and bondings and deaths of the servants.  Week after week of weather reports, financial reports, the rumors and gossip that plagued the kitchens and unsettled the local markets.  Month after month of celebrations, the cycles of the moon, the rotation of the crops, and the status of the stables.

 

Sherlock felt his eyes begin to grow heavy, and it felt to him that the books themselves grew heavier every time he fetched another and brought it to the table to read, turning the pages painstakingly, in order that he not accidentally mar them.

 

And then he saw it.  It was completely innocuous; it could have referred to anyone, not necessarily Moriarty, or even someone French.  But for some reason, Sherlock’s heart began to pound; his hands became clammy, and he had absolutely no doubt that _this_ was the entry for which he had been searching.

 

_…the King due to arrive upon the morrow…. We have persuaded Msr Bocicolt to remain in order to meet him, and he has agreed to delay his return to…._

 

The clasp on the door leading to the hallway echoed in the chamber, and Sherlock didn’t even pause to think.  He snuffed out the candle with his hand, sucking a breath at the sharp pain of the flame, and dropped down below the table.

 

Sherlock was far enough from the door that the light from the intruder’s candle did not reach his table – but did illuminate its bearer enough for Sherlock to make him out quite easily, and when Sherlock saw who it was, he nearly exclaimed in shock.

 

Mycroft closed the door behind him with a soft snick, and walked on silent feet through the room without pause.  Sherlock’s heart pounded as he approached the table where he hid – and he remembered, so suddenly that his heart didn’t have time to sink, that he’d left the book open where he’d read.

 

But Mycroft passed him by, without a pause, as if he hadn’t seen.

 

Sherlock held his breath.  Surely Mycroft had seen it – surely this was part of Mycroft’s plan to catch his younger brother in his defiance.  Any moment, Mycroft would reach down and grasp Sherlock by the scruff of the neck, pull him up to standing and berate him for his unbecoming behavior, his lack of discipline, his insistence on matters that ought not to pertain to the needs or desires of a bonded omega….

 

Mycroft’s footsteps stopped.

 

Sherlock let out his breath, slowly and carefully.  Mycroft was at least four paces beyond the table, and had not turned around. 

 

There was the slow slide of a book being removed from its shelf, and then the soft sound of it being placed on a nearby table.  Mycroft turned page after page, slowly and carefully, as if he was scanning every single page. Sherlock wondered crossly if he was just reminding himself of its contents, or actually looking for something.

 

And then the pages stopped turning. Sherlock waited, wondering, and counted out the long minutes until Mycroft turned another page, and then, after a minute more of reading, closed the book and carried it back to the shelf, where he replaced it.

 

Mycroft turned, and headed back to the door.

 

He stopped just at Sherlock’s table, and Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for Mycroft to speak.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Instead, Mycroft’s steps began again, back to the door, and when Sherlock was sure Mycroft was out of hearing range, he opened his eyes.

 

It took a moment to understand what he was seeing, exactly.  The shadows were odd.  Instead of the dim light from Mycroft’s candle, the room was just a bit brighter, particularly in the area surrounding the table.  Not much, but enough that Sherlock could clearly make out the lines of the table’s support structures, and the stools that surrounded it, as if….

 

As if the candle he’d snuffed out when Mycroft had entered the library had been lit again.

 

Mycroft spoke.  His voice echoed in the library. 

 

“It’s not safe for them here any longer.  Not for Sherlock, and especially not for John.  Not now.  They should leave, and soon, and find shelter in London until it is safe to cross the Channel.”

 

Mycroft opened the door, and left.

 

When Sherlock’s heart began to beat again, he slipped out from under the table, and looked at the book he’d left open.  The words seemed to glow in the flickering candlelight, though perhaps not as much as the five coins Mycroft had left next to the book.

 

… _he has agreed to delay his return to Orléans_ ….

 

Sherlock sat, and read on, turning the page carefully, and when he reached the end of the entry telling the tale of the King’s visit, he let out a long, careful sigh.

 

He stared at the five coins on the table, hardly daring to touch them. He slowly closed the book, replacing it on the shelf, only distantly wondering which book Mycroft had examined, before pocketing the coins, picking up the candle, and retracing his steps back to the party.

 

Sherlock heard the music before he even rounded the last corner.  In a way, it was almost a relief.  If the music still played, it meant that everything was still fine.  John would be fine.  John would be precisely where Sherlock had left him, and Mycroft had simply taken another route to the library. 

 

John was not where Sherlock had left him, and Sherlock’s heart stuck in his throat.  He turned to the party, his gaze sweeping until he saw John on the far side of the Great Hall, sitting under one of the boughs of holly and ivy he’d strung up himself.

 

He wasn’t alone.  A pretty girl, not much older than Sherlock, sat next to him, laughing. 

 

When John smiled back at her, and spoke again, Sherlock’s heart dropped back down to his stomach.  He rested his hand on his pocket, over the coins he’d dropped there, and for a wild moment, thought about simply slipping away into the night, making his way to Orleans, and whatever information he could find there.

 

 _John is not safe_.

 

Sherlock took a breath, folded his hands demurely in front of him, and walked across the Great Hall, careful to skirt the dancers in the center and to avoid anyone who might delay or detour him. 

 

“John,” he said gravely, when he reached his mate and his mate’s companion.

 

John looked up, still laughing at something the girl had said, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he caught the guilt in his eyes.  “Oh.  Will.  I thought you’d gone to bed.”

 

“I thought you were following,” said Sherlock pointedly.  “I grew worried.”

 

John caught his breath.  “No one disturbed you?”

 

“Yeessss,” said Sherlock carefully, “but it’s all right.”

 

John’s eyes flashed worried for a moment, but Sherlock shook his head, so minutely that his hair barely moved. 

 

“Are you going to introduce me?” asked the girl prettily. 

 

“Oh,” said John, startled.  “Agatha, this is my mate, Will.  Will, this is Agatha.”

 

“Agatha Raybourne,” said Agatha, with a bow of her head.  “I do beg your pardon for borrowing your John, he provides a very pleasant conversation.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he could breathe.  _Raybourne, her accent, the style of her hair, the cut of her gown, the shape of her forehead._

 

“Will?” asked John, worried.  “Are you all right?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, and turned and began to walk away, very quickly, hoping that he’d been curt enough that John would follow, and Agatha would not.

 

John caught up to him before he’d even gone halfway down the corridor towards their living spaces.

 

“Will.  _Will_.”  A pause. “Sherlock!” hissed John, and Sherlock shook his head and kept going, until he’d slipped into their room, and bent down to gather their things, throwing them into the center of their blankets.  “What are you _doing_?  She was only being friendly, you didn’t have to be so rude to her—“

 

“We can’t stay here,” said Sherlock dully, and he reached for the four corners of the blanket to draw them together to form a pouch for carrying.

 

“What?  We have to stay here, there’s a storm—“

 

“It’s not safe!”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Sherlock turned to him.  “Agatha of Raybourne.  She lives with her grandfather, the third Earl of Derby, though she is officially the ward of his eldest son her uncle, William the Second, as her parents died of the bloody flux – likely the same flux that took my mother, and your siblings.”

 

“All right,” said John slowly.  “I know you’re very clever, but I’m not sure that you could have learned all of that in just a few moments of looking.”

 

Sherlock breathed slowly.  “Agatha’s mother was the previous Earl of Mansfield’s sister.  In the last two years, Moriarty has sent gifts of increasing value to Derby, in hopes of winning her hand.”

 

John’s breathing didn’t change – it did not speed, it did not slow.  Sherlock marked his breaths in relation to his eyes, how often they blinked – and on the surface, it looked very much as if John was quietly processing the information.

 

“She’s engaged to Moriarty,” said John finally.

 

Sherlock shrugged.  “Or will be, soon.”

 

“And she’s related to the previous earl.”

 

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak.  He watched John carefully, but John breathed normally, as if he wasn’t wondering, second-guessing, thinking back on everything he might have said to her, what she might have said to him.

 

Thinking about what Sir Sebastian Moran had said.  What Godwin Holmes had said.  What had happened on the night Wil Watson had married Hugh, but been taken to the previous earl’s bed.

 

“She won’t recognize us,” said John.

 

“We can’t take that chance.”

 

“She’s probably never heard the story of what happened.”

 

Sherlock shook his head.  “She’ll have been escorted here.  And you know what gossip is like in the servant’s quarters – whoever is with her, they’ll have heard the stories about what happened the night we were bonded.  And they’ll certainly tell about the young man who danced with her, who went by the name of John and has only been here since the summer, bonded to a dark-haired male omega who goes by the name of _Will_.”

 

John paled.  “I should have used another name.”

 

“You didn’t have one,” said Sherlock, and his voice caught.  Even if there were words to say, he wouldn’t have been able to continue.

 

John was on his knees before him in an instant, arms around Sherlock, pulling him in.  “Shh, it’s all right,” he soothed him, but Sherlock could hear the distraction in his voice, the way it shook and quivered, and wasn’t soothed.  “It’ll be weeks until it gets back to Moriarty.  We have a little time.”

 

Sherlock shook his head wildly.  “We have to go.  We have to go to France, tonight.”

 

“Sherlock—“ said John, despairingly.

 

Sherlock pushed away and looked up at him, remembering what Mycroft had said.  “London, then.  We’ll go to London, and wait for the spring thaw.”

 

John took a breath.  “All right.  London.  But we wait until the guests have gone – or at least _she_ has.  It will be far too alerting if we disappear tonight. I won’t have an excuse to see her again, and neither will you, so she won’t have another look at either of us, and maybe her memory will fade enough that we won’t be recognized.”

 

Sherlock didn’t believe it, but John was stubborn.  This was likely the best compromise he would be able to get.

 

“Cook says most of the guests are gone by Epiphany.”

 

“Then that’s when we’ll go,” said John calmly, and then he smiled.  “Your birthday.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, and his laugh was bitter. “Fine way to celebrate, by leaving safety into the unknown.”

 

“Into _London_ ,” John reminded him, his smile still intact.  “Isn’t that what you said to me, once?  Well, here you are.  It’s your birthday, and we’re going to London.”

 

And at that, Sherlock had to smile.

 

*

 

It was snowing, the night they left. 

 

Just a gentle snow, it wouldn’t even be on the ground come daybreak.  Only those awake would even realize that it fell, and the only ones awake were John and Sherlock, gathering their things, slipping out of the doors, starting the walk into London.

 

Only John and Sherlock.

 

And Mycroft, watching from a window high above, his heart in his throat, praying that in sending his brother away from safety, he’d kept them all alive.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm publishing a book in January! [Click here to find out more!](http://geni.us/1CRS)


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